


Dry your smoke stung eyes (so you can see the light)

by RasTroubleChild



Series: The creature in my bloodstream chews me up (so I can feel something) [2]
Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 15:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11762886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RasTroubleChild/pseuds/RasTroubleChild
Summary: Laura Moon finally finds a moment to be vulnerable. It's just her luck to have a certain Leprechaun by her side.Or: Mad Sweeney is an arsehole, just not that kind of arsehole.





	Dry your smoke stung eyes (so you can see the light)

**Author's Note:**

> Platonic showering? Platonic showering.
> 
> You won't necessarily have to read the last fic to keep up with this one but it would probably be of help. 
> 
> Also, never remove someone's pants without their permission, kids!
> 
> In other news, I am trash!

This'll be easy as pie, Mad Sweeney tells himself while adjusting the shower spray in yet another run down hotel bathroom. 

 

It's as manageable as being under some sort of spell or curse or whatever the fuck this is Bilquis placed upon them (a blessing it sure ain't), could be. After all, he's fought  _ insanity _ before and, general mental clarity aside, it was no easy feat to reach this point where he can at least rely on his mind again. Probably. To some degree.

 

He's also been  _ married _ once. That went arseways, too, especially what with him becoming a bird business. It's fair to say then, Sweeney has made it through enough disasters of all magnitudes, large  _ and _ small. Speaking of--

 

"Come one," he announces gruffly as he squats down in front of Laura. "Shower time for you."

 

She's shaking, with violent shivers wracking her frame; has been ever since returning from the dead. "Don't fucking patronise me."

 

_ 'I wouldn't dream of it,' _ he thinks, taking in the state she's in, the way she's hugging her knees to her chest, clad in his denim jacket because her own shirt was left in tatters on an empty battle field - her hands completely disappear inside the sleeves. 

 

But since he's inept at articulating what he actually thinks when it comes to Laura, he doubles down, reciting dramatically, "Doth the lady protest assistance removing her leg attire and use it as excuse bust my bollox again?"

 

She narrows her eyes at him from behind her kneecaps. Her lips are trembling and so blue they'd almost pass as indigo. The tip of her nose a glowing red like Rudolf, the fucking reindeer.

 

Sweeney huffs, "I won't be overcome by lust, I assure you. Even for me, this is a tad too much. You reek like a sewer, look like one too." 

 

"Your face looks like a sewer," she stutters without missing a beat, and he snorts. It's a weak comeback for one Laura Moon, of course, but then she kicks her legs out in front of her anyway, almost sending him onto his ass. "Fine."

 

"Jesus Christ, you're a brat." He grapples to regain balance, starts on the button of her pants but doesn't miss the way the corner of her mouth ticks up. 

 

He won't deny, it pleases him - making her smile. And  _ 'not too kind' _ rings back to him in Essie's pretty accent. He doesn't often come about someone who can hold their own in verbal sparring matches, but Laura - she remains to be a worthy opponent. That hasn't changed now she's back in startling, living colour.

 

"Why am I still so cold?" she asks, frustrated, hisses when her bare legs touch the tiles. 

 

Sweeney's got her pants peeled off almost all the way. The denim sticks to her skin in places with crusted or wet blood - some of it without question theirs - and other gunk he has no desire to identify. 

 

"Temperature to match your soul, ice queen?" he muses, yanking off her boots, chucking them aside before her pants finally go too. 

 

When the snarky response he's expecting doesn't come, he finds Laura staring down at herself. "You might actually have a point," she says quietly, not offended but as if she's considering his remarks for once. 

 

"Okay, enough of that. The ice queen-- she was nothin' like ya," Sweeney tells her anyway, ignoring the dubious look she’s giving him and moves behind her to find purchase under her arms and lifts. "Up, up, into that shower. You'll be good as new." 

 

He pulls back the curtain to the tiny cubicle and urges Laura to hold on and step inside, only for her legs to buckle as soon as he tries to let go, and he gathers her back up. 

 

"Shit. Sorry," she says as if it's  _ her _ doing and, at the pitiful tone of voice, Sweeney almost loses it. Since they've made it here, her body temperature seems to only have dropped, he can feel the chill through her -  _ his _ \- jacket and the shirt he's wearing. 

 

"If you don't mind," he kicks off his own boots, all fake nonchalance. "Seeing that I've dragged your wee arse all the way here, it'd be a waste for you to end up drownin' in the shower."  

 

Up until now, Laura seemed well versed in seeing right through any bullshit. So at the fact that she doesn't call him out that it's rich coming from him - having tried to drown her in the tub once before - paranoia seizes him, and he admits he may have spoken too soon. That maybe this is not going to be easy after all.

 

Banding first one, then his other forearm across her stomach for support, he manages to shrug off his shirt quickly, too before hauling them both in under the hot water together; his pant's, socks, undershirt immediately soaking through. 

 

Laura groans, though, and when she leans into him, lets her head fall back onto his chest to let more of the spray reach her body, he counts it as a win. The stuff rinsing off them is nothing short of revolting, bits of mud, hair and what Sweeney assumes to be flesh - from the battle, they got roped into - clings to the drain. 

 

Not needing another reason to fuel his anxiety, Mad Sweeney slams his eyes shut. But then he feels Laura shift a little awkwardly and, as he opens them again, promptly comes up short. She's fumbling with the buttons on his jacket, tracing the skin where her scars had been as she goes. Only a few protruding stray threads serve as a reminder of the stitches. She pops the last button, wiggles for room and--

He diverts his eyes. "Warn a guy, won't ya?" he tells the ceiling. 

 

Not a beat later, the sodden fabric slides off her arms and plops heavily down at their feet.  Mad Sweeney doesn't even have the time to acknowledge why this might have been a fucking  _ terrible _ idea before Laura’s shoulders tremble again and not from the cold either this time. 

 

He hears her sobs first and risks a glance, barely notes her long hair sticking over her breasts before he sees where she's pried part of the stitches from her arm, tiny pinprick droplets of blood welling up from her skin.  

 

"What the fuck am I even now, huh?" she grinds out, at once aggressively rubbing at the rest of the threads. When that's apparently not enough, uses her nails, and blood starts to flow faster.  

 

"Cut it out!" Sweeney barks, bats at her hands when she won't listen. "What good's that gonna do?" 

 

As Leprechaun, a creature as intuitive as it is intrusive, he's expected this. A build up of what happened crashing down eventually now that Laura's fully back inside herself - after three-thousand years it's still a lot for him to wrap his head around, gods and curses, it drove him out of his mind - anyone would need a fucking minute and right now seems to be that moment for Laura. 

 

"I died," she whispers, turning in the circle of his arms. Shoves him until his back hits the tiles with a smack. She's still very strong, though no longer strong enough to break him, but this is half her efforts at best. And then she follows anyway, stumbling right back into him. "I was killed! You--" His insides twist as she breathes, "murdered me."

 

It's probably all kinds of fucked up, given how she's absolutely right, that it's also his hand coming up compulsively to cradle her head against his chest even as she’s still pushing at him only to anchor herself in his shirt again, bunching up the fabric enough it almost tears.

 

"Aye," he says. "it was me." it’s all he really  _ can _ say. And then Laura starts crying in earnest - hiccuping and gasping while his other hand rubs soothing circles on her back until he’s losing sight of who he's comforting, the woman he’d murdered in cold blood or himself.

 

And for every time Sweeney hushes her, she digs her blunt nails into the muscles of his back, so hard, deeper,  _ deeper _ until he's sure she's drawing blood; even at her lowest, Laura's still in there, forever fighting  _ mean _ . And he welcomes the sting, too, locks his jaw against the urge to cry out. 

 

Because he doesn't want forgiveness, not really, and Laura isn't offering. What he needed is for someone to finally let him own up to the atrocity he's committed. He's been craving it, since the night when he riled up Shadow for a brawl. It almost makes Sweeney laugh that, if only Shadow could see him now, he'd throttle him on the spot - have more than ample reason to. 

 

Longing idly for a smoke, perhaps a drink or ten, he lets his head thud back against the tiles; accepts any and all punishment; doesn't dare move. He deserves to suffer and in more ways than just one.

 

And by the time Laura's breathing evens out, she's warmed up, supporting most of her own weight. While admittedly a lot, having an armful of Laura Moon isn't something he can truly  _ mind _ . So it isn't until he's combing his fingers through her hair, untangling the ends bit by bit that he’s drawn back into the moment. Because when he gets to her skull, kneading through the roots, she sighs, into the space between them - this tiny,  _ obscene _ kitten noise.

 

And space there isn't much of, he notes as her claws let up slowly. She's pressed right up against him, all soft, heat-flushed skin, which. Well--

 

Since it's obviously not  _ like that _ . And as Irishman Sweeney isn't exactly easily scandalised - and has remained confident at exercising self-control for donkey years (unlike that nitwit Robbie, he's honestly never been that kind of arsehole) but he also doesn't need the mental image of Laura naked and wet, burned into his brain for later. Much less learn the way her body fits against his, or what noises she makes, to haunt him for eternity.

 

So it seems his best bet is to refocus and answer for the infinite ways he's already screwed up. "It won't atone for anythin', I know, and you can hit me for it after but-- I'm sorry." he swallows, chokes on the rest of the words, "I really am."

 

But Laura doesn't slap him or respond with anything well fitting at first and then, "I don't know," she starts thoughtful. "I'm a bit offended," Sweeney is about to ask, like, what the hell that should mean, when she goes on, "It could have been someone neat - like the Joker or Lex Luther, but I got done in by a Venti Leprechaun."  

 

"They're not--," he blusters.

 

"What?" she asks all innocents. " _ Real _ ?"

 

"Did you just--?"

 

"Reference Frappuccino sizes for your freakish,  _ freakish _ height?" She's absolutely taking the piss, he can hear the smile muffle her voice, " _ Aye _ , I did." Considering the evidence of red rimmed, puffy eyes, her expression, when she squints up at him through the steam, is altogether too smug, 

 

"You really are an arsehole," he shuts off the water, snatches up the single scratchy towel provided by the hotel, throws it at Laura's face in a bid to hide his own relief. "Get away from me."

 

And now that she's clearly back, Laura's not entirely blase about nudity, either. She swiftly tucks herself in, if looking annoyingly amused all the while.

 

*

In ways of giving Laura some privacy to realign herself back in a body that's, well -  _ alive _ , doing his best to salvage his pants, put his dry shirt and boots back on, barring the socks, serves as good enough distraction.  Even if he's pretty sure, walking around like this will chafe him raw in ‘places’. 

 

But he doesn’t find it in himself to hold a grudge, now that she’s sitting on the bed, resembling a marshmallow so cocooned in blankets.

 

"Where're you going?"

 

_ ‘Why are you sticking around?’ _ she should be asking, but he ignores those implications, too.

 

He skims the pockets of his dripping denim jacket draped over an armchair, plops the wet pack of tobacco down on the table in way of explaining, "Just gettin' some smokes. You hungry?" There's hardly anything of her as is and, as if on cue, her stomach growls. "Take it that's a yes."

 

Laura hums and jawns right after, like her body can't prioritise any-which need, and he barely has the mind to turn to flee before she sinks down on the pillows.

 

Because this image of her, sleepy and bed mussed - content for the moment, Sweeney doesn't need either. And there’s that voice again,  _ 'I'd be content to be content'.  _ Laura feels safe with him here, he realises - knowing he doesn't deserve her trust or the pride that blooms in his chest. And,  _ oh _ \-- how royally fucked he is.

 

Her eyes are already drifting shut, but then, "Hey," she calls groggily, and he freezes in the open door. 

 

She's going to ask about the fucking curse, he's sure. He was going to have to explain at some point. What exactly it entails, the little details he’s left out. And no one could blame him for not being too keen on that. So he braces himself, only turning his head a fraction as to not look at her directly when it hits him.

 

But all she mumbles is, "thanks."

 

Sweeney doesn't ask. The stupid smile he feels growing on his face as he goes paying testament enough as to why this is not only hardly manageable anymore but what a shitshow it’s become.

 

Little does he know that it’ll still get worse after taking a few steps onto the parking lot and he scans the sky. 

 

"Fuck!" Grimnir's crows are squawking at him from a branch across the road. 

 

It must be the curse, at least in part, that causes him to ache with the knowledge that he has to finish what he started. He will, too, just not at the price of Laura stranded here. And it takes everything he’s got in him to change course and make one last call before leaving her behind.

**Author's Note:**

> There is at least one more instalment left to add to this series. Comments make me mad with power, so please feel free to share your thoughts and words of encouragement


End file.
